The Truth About Cats and Dogs
by 221b Baker Street
Summary: A quiet evening with a bottle of Scotch, a little white dog, a television and the new chief of the CBI.


**The Truth About Cats and Dogs**

He sits at home, watching television, drinking 35 yr old Scotch, with a little white dog on his lap.

It is an interesting program, a documentary about dogs and how they rank in terms of their intelligence as predetermined by their breeds. It is an old documentary, perhaps 10 years old, based on a book of the same name, and he has the book in his shelf, along with many other similar books. He finds information on many roads.

And he does love dogs.

He sips the Scotch as he watches, strokes the soft white fur and learns so very much. But he disagrees on a fundamental level, for intelligence is a thing most difficult to measure. It is, by its very nature, subjective. Dogs do what they do, what they have been bred to do. It seems ethically wrong for humans to use them for it then judge them accordingly. But much in this world is wrong, and he feels it all, despite his stoic exterior.

The little white dog twitches. It is having a dream. It is draped across his vast belly, and it is having a dream.

He is honored, and he wonders what it could be dreaming of. Not squirrels, not this dog. Not cats. No, this dog has never met a cat. _He _has met cats. He has met many cats in his day.

And for some reason that he has never been quite able to fathom, JJ LaRoche hates cats.

Oh, he can respect them for what they do, for the perfect predators that they are, for the way they have integrated human society with their own killer instinct and come out far ahead in the end. Farther even than dogs. With dogs, life is symbiotic, relational, mutual. People are their pack. They fit themselves happily into human mold. Not cats. Cats do not bend that way.

He smiles to himself. People are mostly like dogs.

Cops, for certain, are mostly like dogs. He himself is a cop, although he considers himself more an observer, a watcher, a servant of law and justice and order alone. He works with people only because his job dictates it. He would gladly trade it all for a quiet office, some books and a puzzle. But now, he leads them and it boggles and pleases him at the same time.

He sips his Scotch again. It is good Scotch, given to him by someone who seems very much like a cat.

He grins again. Most people are dogs. He himself is a dog. An English bulldog. Stocky, round but fiercely built, happy to lie on a cushion for most of the day. But again, life is found in the contrast, and despite its stoic exterior, the English Bulldog was bred to be a pit-fighter, fearsome and unstoppable, and once his jaws have locked on, they will never ever let go. Not until something is dead or defeated and done.

In fact, most cops are dogs of some sort. German shepherds or Doberman Pinschers. Belgian Malinois or Labrador Retreivers. Yes, most certainly, most cops are dogs.

He would even go as far to say that most _people _are dogs, but some, an unpredictable few, are cats. Like the one who gave him this Scotch.

He thinks of that team, in particular. Four dogs, and a cat.

One dog, the one who could be a leader, is a Chow. Strong, stocky, short and hard-muscled. Loyal and wary, bred to defend kings and palaces, quiet and aloof to all but its own. To its own, it will defend to the death. Not a dog for the faint of heart.

Another, a Great Dane. Large, gangly, barrel-chested and strong. Also bred to adorn the thrones of European kings. Despite its formidable appearance, the Dane is a sweet-natured, gentle dog, and very protective of those in its family. A dog to leave your children with. He smiles at the thought. He can imagine this Dane with children.

An Irish Setter next. Long-legged and regal, this dog sports a flowing coat of firey red, and is one of the most beautiful dogs in the canine world. It is easy to forget she is a first-class birder, a hunting dog of highest repute. Yes, it is easy to forget with this one. The crack of a gun is her music.

And then, as he sips his Scotch, he considers the alpha female. The bitch, although the term is not colloquially appropriate, for he likes her. She is small, quick, sleek and intelligent. Aloof as well, but a shepherd, always moving in between him and his prey, the others in her pack, protecting, diverting, herding in subtle but definite ways.

A Border Collie. Yes, a small one, lithe and smart, capable of handling both sheep and wolves. This dog has her own agenda, and he would be wise to remember that.

And then there is the cat.

He sighs, and it disturbs the small dog on his lap. He strokes its ears to send it back off to sleep.

Cats operate by very different rules than dogs, for other than lions, there are no cats that live in groups. All cats, whether domestic or wild, are solitary. Independent and non-dependent, and in a world of dogs, that makes them unpredictable. They come and go as they please, disappearing for days on end only to reappear in time for a saucer of cream. They allow themselves to be fed, when all the while they are quite capable of fending for themselves. They sleep where they will. They walk on counters. They climb up drapes. They shred the carpets, they taunt the dogs, they eat the birds the family feeds. Cats do not fit in well with a society of dogs.

And cops are most definitely a society of dogs.

He nods to himself while sipping his Scotch. These TV nights are productive times. He mutes the sound and continues.

Rules, order, alpha, omega. Status, hierarchy, pack. Yes, cops are most definitely dogs. And while a cat amongst the proverbial pigeons is a dangerous thing, a cat amongst a society of dogs is a calamity.

He wonders why the cat lives with them.

It is not the company he seeks. He is quite happy by himself, dozing on some couch or dusty attic somewhere. And just when you think he is sound asleep, there is the crack of an eye, an unsheathing of a claw, the curl of a rough tongue.

He wonders if it is some lack of resource that keeps that cat near, and realizes that this must be the case. It isn't terribly difficult to guess the resource, and for some reason it makes him a little sad.

He sets down the Scotch and reaches for his phone.

It is late, but the cat doesn't sleep, and it only rings twice before it is picked up and answered.

"JJ. This is a pleasant surprise," says the cat. His voice is smooth, mellow, like a sleepy purr.

"Is it?" he asks. The little dog twitches at the sound of his voice. He strokes its ears again.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Of course," he answers. "Forgive my assumption."

"Forgiven. Of course."

There is a long pause. The cat loves the game as much as he does, and he's not certain who's the better at it. He would think the cat, but then again, bulldogs are very patient.

"Did you have any pets growing up, Mr. Jane?"

There is a pause on the other end and he grins to himself. He has confounded the cat for a moment. It is a strange question to be asking in the middle of the night.

"I had an elephant, once..."

"An elephant?" He blinks. The cat has confounded _him_ now and he realizes he knows very little about this cat.

"Well," says the voice, smooth as butter. Sharp as glass. "She wasn't really mine. But she was a nasty old girl. I liked her alot."

"An elephant. That's very interesting. You think I'm wrong about Madeleine Hightower, don't you, Mr. Jane?"

Another pause. And he realizes with some quiet pride, that he is finally learning to speak cat.

"That's not my call, JJ." Every word carefully chosen.

"Hm."

"Do _you _think you're wrong about Madeleine Hightower?"

"Now, why would I think that?"

"Now why would you call me in the middle of the night?"

"A person's pet tells you very much about a person."

"You have a little white dog. And I had an elephant. So I suppose you're right. Do you like the Scotch?"

The cat is cagey. He can almost hear the claws.

He picks it up, sips it again, makes sure the cat can hear it going down his throat.

"It's very nice. Smooth. With just a bit of bite to it."

"I'm glad."

"Well, good night Mr. Jane."

"Good night, JJ."

And the phone goes dead. The cat hangs up before he does. Confident. Self assured. More than just a little unnerved.

_Fascinating._

Images flash on the screen and he realizes his program is back on. He reaches for the remote, lifts the last of the Scotch to his lips, takes a long slow sip. Savours it in his mouth and strokes his little white dog for a long while afterwards.

He wonders if he can find a program on elephants.

_The End_


End file.
